


Set Yourself On Fire

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Depression, Drug Addiction, F/M, I know what you did last summer, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: He hasn’t felt clean for a long time.That’s the thing about fire, though; it cleanses, purifies, and maybe he’ll burn up hot enough to take Lilith with him someday.
Relationships: Ruby/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	Set Yourself On Fire

**Author's Note:**

> For idreamofplaid's "Thanks For The Memories" challenge on Tumblr, for the episode "I Know What You Did Last Summer."

The whiskey stings when Sam splashes it over the cut on his arm. It’s a good kind of pain, blindingly sharp and clean, and for a moment it takes his mind off the slimy ache in his chest and the filthy squirming guilt in his gut. 

Dean’s looking at him again, searching and suspicious.

“Why do you trust her so much?” he asks, and Sam doesn’t want to meet his eyes. 

“I told you.” 

“You got to do better than that. Hey, I’m not trying to pick a fight here. I mean, I really want to understand. But I need to know more. I mean, I deserve to know more.” 

He does. Dean deserves that and so much better. 

Sam tilts the bottle again, watching the booze wash away the blood as it burns him clean, and he takes a sip, as if that’ll do the same thing to the ugly wound in his chest. There isn’t enough whiskey in the world to sanitize his insides. 

He knows he can’t tell the whole truth, but Dean deserves to know more. The question is, where does he start? 

He could start with the moment the dirt closed over the grave. _Sam_ , Bobby had said, so quietly. _Sam, don’t._ And it was funny, how much Sam had always wanted that; he always wanted a father figure who would ask him to stay. _I can’t,_ he told Bobby, and he lurched away, staggered to the car, started driving.

He can’t tell Dean about the days that followed, because he doesn’t remember much of them. Two, three, maybe four days slipped away while he hid in a shitty motel, drinking, and the memories that remain are disjointed flashes in his mind: the ugly floral duvet under his cheek as he collapsed face-first into the bed, the cold white bathroom tiles and the bruises they left on his knees, a ceiling fan distorted through salt-swollen eyes as he watched it spinning lazily overhead, the taste of bile, the blood on his knuckles, the broken shard of mirror that he picked up and turned over in his hands for longer than he’ll ever admit. 

No. He can’t start there.

“She saved my life,” he says hoarsely, and Dean waits while Sam tries to find the words. 

He still hears John, sometimes: _Why are you crying? Be strong. Be brave. Get over yourself. Other people got it a lot worse, y’know. Stop feeling sorry for yourself._

He’s gotten better at ignoring John’s voice, over the years, but it’s harder to ignore his memories of Dean. Dean blinking back tears, forcing a smile. _It’s going to be okay, Sammy. I’m fine, Sammy, don’t worry about me._ He’s always wanted to be like his big brother, and his big brother wouldn’t let himself wallow the way Sam had. His big brother would’ve found a way to fight back. 

The crossroads demon had been his only real hope. 

_Just take me. It’s a fair trade._

The worst part was, that _no_ didn’t really surprise him. Of course his life wasn’t worth the same as Dean’s. Of _course_ it wasn’t enough, _he_ wasn’t enough, to save his brother the way Dean had saved him. 

Sam wasn’t sure who he was without Dean, without a mission, without anything to hold onto. 

He’d gotten in the car and started driving. He thought about heading West, out to the cliffs and curves of Highway One; the guardrail was so flimsy, and the Pacific would be steely-grey and welcoming. He thought about heading East, all the way to Maine; the shoreline was rocky and rough, and the crabs would find his body. He could go to Florida, drive into a swamp, let the muck swallow him slowly. He could go to the Dakotas, drive out into the desert, park there and wait, and the vultures would descend eventually. He wondered if anyone would notice that he was gone. 

He can’t tell Dean that. 

So he doesn’t tell Dean about the directionless days. He starts with the day Ruby found him. 

He doesn’t tell Dean about the relief he felt, when he thought Ruby was going to kill him. He doesn’t tell Dean about the cold crush of disappointment in his chest when she stabbed the demon instead. 

He tells Dean about her new body, “100% socially conscious.” He tells Dean about the plan to find Lilith: “I wanted to go right away.” 

Sam had asked, _What do you want from me?_

_A little patience. And sobriety._

Sobriety made it harder to sleep, and insomnia made it even harder to remember what was real. He didn’t feel real. He felt like a faded, dull husk of a person, a sunbleached copy of a photograph instead of a breathing human with a heartbeat. Ruby told him to use his strength, but he didn’t have anything left. 

Sam didn’t much care if he died, and some days he wasn’t even sure he was still alive. 

He can’t tell Dean that. 

He sees the way Dean looks at him sometimes. He sees the exhaustion in Dean’s eyes, the worry flickering behind that, and Sam doesn’t want to add to the weight on his big brother’s shoulders. 

Ruby said, _Just give it time, Sam. It’ll get better. I’m not talking about pulling demons. I know losing Dean was…_

_I don’t want to talk about it._

The anger tasted ashy in his mouth. It burned, but in a purifying way, like a forest fire clearing the land for new growth. The anger helped him focus. He balled his hands into fists, imagined punching her, imagined that pretty face swollen and bleeding. 

He doesn’t tell Dean about that. 

_You know what? Where do you get off slapping me with that greeting-card, time-heals crap? What the hell do you know?  
  
I used to be human. And I still remember what it feels like to lose someone. I’m sorry._

He almost did punch her, at that. 

When she kissed him, it was Dean’s voice in the back of his head saying, _this is wrong._ He shoved her away. 

“I knew it was wrong,” Sam confesses, and he can’t meet Dean’s eyes. “But…” 

He didn’t care, in the moment. It was his brother’s opinion that had always mattered; he always wanted to make Dean proud. But Dean was dead, and Sam had been drifting for so long, and Ruby’s skin was warm and soft and real under his hands.

It was more like a battle than a kiss. It was teeth and claws, ripping each other apart, but every bite and every scratch felt like a reminder that Sam was still alive. 

“Sam?” Dean snaps. “Too much information.” And there it is, _there’s_ the disgust Sam knew was coming. Dean’s lip curls and Sam feels like a child again, clumsy and stupid next to his strong, steady anchor of a big brother. 

The half-truth sits uncomfortably in his throat, and Sam has to work to get it past his lips: “I’m coming clean.” 

There’s something monstrous inside him, something warped and wrong. There’s always been something wrong with him. 

He thinks of the vial in his pocket, the burst of copper on his tongue like a mushroom cloud, the silent dare in Ruby’s big dark eyes and the way she sighs when he slices her open. It burns a little hotter every time he drinks, and he must be charred and black inside by now. 

He hasn’t felt clean for a long time. 

That’s the thing about fire, though; it cleanses, purifies, and maybe he’ll burn up hot enough to take Lilith with him someday. Self-immolation seems inevitable, at this point. His life doesn’t mean much, but maybe his death will. 

“Pretty soon after that,” Sam says, “I put together some signs. Omens. Lilith was in town, and I wanted to strike her first.”   
  
Ruby had looked so goddamn concerned, when she realized, and Sam had hated her for it. _You don’t want to survive this. This isn’t what Dean would’ve wanted. This isn’t what he died for._

“She came after me,” Sam says. “She saved me.” 

He hesitates. 

He doesn’t tell Dean about the blood. 

Sam remembers the night after that failed attack. He remembers watching Ruby cut herself for the first time: his stomach roiling and his skin crawling, the blood welling up and beading into shiny pearls of red. He imagined it sliding down his throat and staining his guts that same dark crimson. 

He doesn’t tell Dean about the way it sizzled on his lips, crackled and sparked inside him, lit him up in a whole new way. He doesn’t tell Dean about the next demon, the way the black oily smoke poured out all at once, faster than he’d ever seen it leave a human before, and the way his veins sang with the power. 

He doesn’t tell Dean about the too-hot shower afterward, when the fizz was long gone and he scrubbed himself raw trying to get rid of the itch that it left behind. 

He didn’t like the way he felt with Ruby, but at least he felt _something_ again. 

“If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be here,” he tells Dean quietly. 

He doesn’t ask, _Do you regret dying for me? Was I worth it?_

He’s not sure he could live with the answer. 


End file.
